


A Miserable Spectacle of Wrecked Humanity

by Atisenia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Tumblr: letswritesherlock, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-27
Updated: 2014-09-27
Packaged: 2018-02-19 00:17:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2367224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atisenia/pseuds/Atisenia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock was determined to never let John know he had wings. But there are more important things than keeping secrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Miserable Spectacle of Wrecked Humanity

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Let's Write Sherlock's [Trope Bingo Challenge](http://letswritesherlock.tumblr.com/post/92844722125/challenge-15-trope-bingo-how-does-one-play). This is the Wing!fic trope from Card 4. And since I cheated with the last fic, this completes the bingo line. Yay! Well, I say cheated... I decided to add the Confession trope to _Both or None_. So that will make four fics and five tropes. I had another one planned for the Confession trope but there's no chance I'd be able to write it before the deadline (which is today). I wrote another one some time ago and I might post it on [my tumblr](http://atisenia.tumblr.com) but I didn't really end up liking it that much, so... Well.  
>  I'm absolutely amazed by the response to my latest fics. You should know that I'm a very happy writer right now and I just wanted to thank you all for reading, leaving kudos and commenting.  
> Also, as always, I'm not a native English speaker and this is not betaed, so if you see any unforgivable errors, just let me know.;)
> 
> The title is borrowed from _Frankenstein_ which inspired this story in some capacity.

There was no time to think of something else.

They were chasing a murder suspect, ducking into dark alleys and jumping onto roofs. John was following him, like Sherlock knew he would. If he could ever be sure of anything, it was this: if Sherlock started running, John wouldn't be far behind. It still perplexed him but there was an overwhelming amount of data that supported this theory.

So then, as expected: Sherlock was running and John wasn't far behind.

Harris knew his territory well, but Sherlock breathed in sync with the city. They had no problem following, making use of Sherlock's internal map.

They followed him onto another roof and Sherlock could finally almost reach him. He was about to jump forward and incapacitate Harris when it happened.

"Sherlock!" John yelled behind him. There was panic in his voice that made Sherlock abandon the chase and look around for possible threats.

John was slipping. He must have tripped on the brick that Sherlock had avoided with ease and now he was losing his balance and he would fall. Sherlock wouldn't be able to reach him in time. He was too far away and John was falling backwards, trying to stabilize himself. But Sherlock could see it was all in vain.

John searched frantically for his eyes and gave Sherlock a reassuring smile, as if it was _his_ job to help Sherlock in this impossible situation, the absolute idiot, and Sherlock knew in that moment that there was never really any other option at all.

He shed his coat, jacket and shirt, spread his wings and flew.

He reached John two storeys down and flapped his wings with all his might, trying to catch as much air on the membranes as possible. They were too close to earth for any kind of stabilization and John's additional weight made the landing bumpy. But Sherlock knew it was worth it when he looked into John's wide, _alive_ eyes.

"Sh— Sherlock," John breathed and Sherlock smiled at him, sad and uncertain.

That's when the first stone hit him, right in the arm that was still tightly wound around John. He should have expected this, he _had_ expected this, but somehow it came as an unpleasant surprise.

"Leave him alone, you monster!" someone called. There was a click of a camera and another stone hit him between the ribs.

How predictable. How tedious.

How _wrong_ of them to think that he would ever hurt John, when he would give everything he had, when he just risked everything he had, just to keep him safe.

But that's people for you, always wrong, predictable and tedious.

The next stone flew over Sherlock's head and nearly hit John which just wouldn't do. The longer he stayed here, the more he still put John in danger.

John was talking to him but Sherlock didn't hear him over the familiar resounding _freak_ and _monster_ and _creature_ and _beast_. He closed his eyes and breathed John in, just in case this was to be his last chance to do it. He made sure John was alright and took off, flying away towards the night sky.

 

~*~

 

Mycroft found him because Mycroft knew where Sherlock would go. It was a nice little cave not far away from their childhood home. And it was high enough that Mycroft would have to risk ruining his impeccable suit to get there, which Sherlock knew he wouldn't do. That's what made it a perfect hiding place and let Sherlock decide if he wanted to talk to his annoying brother or not.

Right now, he didn't really care.

"You've really made a mess of it this time, Brother mine," Mycroft said from below. Sherlock hated the sympathetic note in his voice.

"I didn't really have much of a choice, Brother _dear_ ," Sherlock snapped from his place at the edge of the cave. He let his feet dangle in the air and had his wings spread as wide as they went. The soft caress of the wind on his membranes helped silence his mind.

"No," Mycroft allowed. He twirled his umbrella and cleared his throat. "All evidence of your... mishap has been dealt with, the witnesses persuaded to reconsider sharing what they _think_ they saw." He stopped to glance at Sherlock. "However, I can't guarantee that they will all know what's good for them."

"Yes..." Sherlock stared ahead. "My phone hasn't stopped vibrating since the _mishap_ , as you so cleverly put it, so I would say your persuasion skills are mediocre at best."

He looked at Mycroft whose expression turned marginally sour and looked away again.

"Unfortunate as it is, not everything can always be accounted for," Mycroft said.

"No." Sherlock wrapped his wings around himself. "How's John?"

"As unhurt as you left him, I believe."

"Good."

Neither of them said anything for a long moment.

"Do come back at some point, would you?" Mycroft said and left a bag for Sherlock at the foot of the rock. "Mummy would be terribly upset if you didn't."

And then he left and disappeared into the waiting black car.

Sherlock waited until he could be sure his brother left for good and pulled out his phone. He had over 100 texts already, 37 missed calls and 23 voice messages. Evidently, someone evaded his brother's pathetic excuse of damage control and alerted the interested parties. There was probably a horde of reporters already waiting to devour him when he got back to Baker Street. Well, _if_. Maybe John already packed his things and threw him out.

His phone vibrated with a new text message from John. Sherlock hesitated before checking it and then saw it was only one of many.

 _Please, come home_ , the text said.

Sherlock stared at the text and blinked. He pocketed his phone and flew down to the ground. He looked into the bag and pulled out a new shirt, a jacket and his beloved coat. He methodically rolled his wings until they lay flat against his back and put the clothes on. It wasn't ideal but he had no other option. When he reached the main road, there was already a car waiting for him.

 

~*~

 

The car stopped a couple of streets away from Baker Street and Sherlock didn't have to be told to use the back entrance. The press was the bane of his existence, and he longed for the days when the last thing he needed to worry about was public image.

He slipped into the building undetected, which only reinforced his belief — strong as it already was — that idiocy was a genetic trait of the human species. They probably had a reporter on the roof, waiting for him to make a grand entrance with his wings in full sight. As if he had no survival instinct whatsoever.

No one was guarding the back door. Idiots. All of them.

He slowly climbed the stairs to the flat, avoiding the creaking fourth step. It wouldn't do to startle John. If he could talk to him rationally, maybe John would at least let him stay on a trial basis. Maybe a full month before he decided he had enough of his wretched friend. A month to say goodbye to John.

Maybe it would be easier if John just left.

Sherlock opened the door to the flat and spotted John immediately in his chair, head bowed and covered with his hands. He hesitated, not sure how to start.

John must have sensed Sherlock looking at him though, because he snapped his head up. He jumped from his chair and Sherlock flinched at the sudden motion.

"Sherlock!" John called and started walking towards him. "Thank God you're here!"

Then John hugged him. He put his arms around Sherlock and squeezed as if Sherlock was something precious and not the disfigured monster that he was. John never hugged him.

"John?" Sherlock said uncertainly and absolutely refused to acknowledge that his voice broke a little on the single word.

"Just... give me a moment, yeah?" John said and his voice, muffled as it was by Sherlock's chest, wasn't entirely steady either. Sherlock decided to indulge himself and hugged John back.

All too soon, John was pulling away, but he smiled at Sherlock, even though his eyes were sad.

"Tea, I think," he said and went to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Sherlock didn't dare speak until there was a hot beverage in front of him. And even then, what he actually managed to say was completely moronic.

"We didn't catch Harris," he said.

John looked at him for a long time with a serious expression on his face.

"No," he said. "No, we didn't. Sherlock—"

"It's fine, John," Sherlock hurried to say. He couldn’t believe they were really having this conversation.

"It's not," John protested and clenched his fingers around his mug. It must have hurt. The tea still burned Sherlock's tongue. "You— you saved me, Sherlock, I didn't—" He took a deep breath. "Why would you do that?"

Sherlock blinked at him, uncomprehending. Why was John asking him this? Was he supposed to let John die when he could do something to prevent it?

"You saved my life countless of times," Sherlock said with a frown.

"Yes," John drawled. "But I've never exposed myself like you did. I'm not... um..."

Sherlock knew it was coming. He really did. But he couldn't stop himself from flinching.

"You're not a monster," he said quietly, trying to chase away the sudden lump in his throat with scalding tea. It burned his oesophagus in a most satisfying way.

"No! No, Sherlock, I didn't mean—"

"It's okay, John." Sherlock forced himself to look him in the eye. "You don't have to stay because you feel you need to be grateful."

"That's not— You really can be as daft as the rest of us sometimes," John said.

Sherlock glared at his tea, aware that John got up from his chair. He was probably going to bed and he would leave first thing in the morning and then Sherlock would be left alone again.

"I really don't think—" Sherlock tried to say but then John's lips were on his and he couldn't say much of anything.

It took Sherlock an unforgivably long second to register that John was kissing him. And when that unbelievable truth managed to sink in, he was too shocked to respond.

John pulled away and smiled at him fondly.

"No," he said with a soft smile. "You really don't sometimes." He caressed Sherlock's cheek with his thumb. "You're not a monster, Sherlock. Not that. Never that."

"I have giant bat wings growing out of my back. Of course I'm a monster."

"You're _magnificent_ ," John said with wonder and Sherlock's heart skipped a beat.

"John," he breathed and let John’s mouth do as it pleased.

 

~*~

 

Sherlock felt the question forming in John's mind before John decided to voice it. They were sitting in their armchairs, drinking tea and pretending to watch some mindless television. They both needed some space to organize their thoughts and while Sherlock — predictably — had his mind palace remodelled where it counted already, John still needed more time. So Sherlock gave it to him and braced himself for the question.

Finally, Sherlock felt John's eyes on him and gave up the pretence of watching telly. He turned to look at John whose eyes flicked briefly to his back and then to Sherlock's face.

"Can I see them?" John asked the question and even though Sherlock expected it, he froze. He forced himself to relax and nodded sharply. He reached for his jacket buttons with shaking fingers.

"Here, let me," John said gently and took off first Sherlock's jacket and then his shirt. When he finished, Sherlock was trembling all over which John was kind enough not to point out. He regarded Sherlock with caution even though his eyes strayed to the wings still clutched tightly behind Sherlock's back. "Maybe..." he started. "It would be more comfortable if you lay down. Perhaps."

Sherlock nodded, still unable to utter a word, and then followed John to his own room. A nervous energy coiled at the bottom of his stomach and a hateful voice whispered in his ear that maybe John wouldn't like what he had to offer after all.

He swallowed and tried to draw courage from John's fond smile. He approached the bed and lay down on his stomach.

There was a sharp intake of breath when Sherlock finally spread his wings. The bed creaked softly and gentle hands traced the scars on Sherlock's back.

"You weren't born like this," John said, passing his hands over unnatural joints.

"No," Sherlock found his voice and focused on the sensation of John's fingers caressing the membranes.

"What happened?" John asked softly and kissed the tip of Sherlock's wing.

"I... um..." Sherlock said after a while. Maybe John wasn't going to leave. "When I was seven, I was... abducted, I guess you might say. I wandered where I wasn't supposed to be." He took a deep breath. "I witnessed scientists experimenting on people, trying to enhance them, so to speak, and when they discovered me, I became an experiment myself."

He stopped talking and focused on the soothing movement of John's fingers on his back and wings.

"Who found you?" John whispered.

"No one. I only got away because they weren't satisfied with their own experiment. I was weak and couldn't even fly, which was what they wanted, and of course I had these ugly membranes attached to my back instead of feathers." He stopped his tale and then let out an bitter laugh. "Even the people who did this to me thought they created a monster, so they got rid of me, hoping that I would die. I very nearly did." He looked over his shoulder at John who was still stroking his wings with gentle fingers. "I guess I wasn't as weak as they thought I was."

John's eyes were soft when he looked at Sherlock and he pressed a kiss to one of Sherlock's scars.

"Did you try to remove them?" John asked quietly.

"I would. But they're placed too close to the spinal cord. Hiding them seemed like a safer option."

John nodded and shifted on the bed so that he was lying side by side with Sherlock.

"I'm glad you didn't," he said and Sherlock only blinked at him. "Your wings are gorgeous. And you _can_ fly," he added with a grin.

Sherlock shrugged.

"It was merely a question of learning how to move unfamiliar joints in a manner that would allow me to overcome the pull of gravity and then maintain the balance during the flight."

John caressed his cheek and Sherlock leaned into the caress.

"Yeah, like I said. You're magnificent." John beamed at him but grew serious almost immediately. "I'm so sorry you had to go through all this," he said and reached out to once again trace the outlines of the scars. "And now... this. All because of me."

Sherlock caught the hand caressing his back by the wrist and guided it to lay between them. He intertwined their fingers and squeezed before he looked John in the eye.

"There was no other option," he said with conviction.

John looked at him for a long time and then nodded.

"We'll deal with it," he said.

"Mycroft probably has a plan already. We can always say it was for a case."

John chuckled.

"What? You learned to fly for a case?" he asked. Sherlock shrugged. "For the record, I don't think they look like bat wings."

Sherlock frowned.

"They do," he said. "I conducted and elaborate study—"

"I rather think they're dragon wings," John interrupted and beamed at him.

Sherlock's wings spread proudly behind his back.


End file.
